


Decay

by Lyus



Category: Mass Effect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 20:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10171595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyus/pseuds/Lyus
Summary: "I'm only— a child by Asari standards, but far older than you'll ever be."Shepard muses on the lifespans of the species that inhabit her galaxy, and wonders what right she has to change so much in so little time. Unlike her actions her thought process isn't so cut and dry.





	1. Chapter 1

I'm not old, but I'm not young either. I've seen hundreds of sunsets on Earth, stared into the eyes of millions of people, walked into the body of a war. I've seen horrible things, done horrible things, have experienced horrible things. I stare into the face of myself in the mirror when I rise to do the job I signed up for. Every hour I'm awake is another hour I think about the weight I carry, the expectations and hopes of entire civilizations, but then there are the things I can't reasonably worry about. I can't worry about the thoughts on an individual or the actions of single person. I can't worry about my crew in any capacity other than their ability to function as a cohesive unit. I watch the people under my command every day. I know they need to be better if they're to live, and I know that if they're not to live they'll need to be replaced, and with their replacement comes the nagging thought I've always had.

When did people stop being people? When did I stop caring about anything other than getting the job done? Why did I have to choose to serve in an institution that did not serve me? Why was I given the honor of being bound only to the one entity that would refuse to help me when I needed it most?

I know I only have months to think about this at best, or weeks, maybe days. I know that the person I see in the mirror when I wake up isn't the same as the person I see when I go to sleep at night, or the person that wakes up drenched with nothing but the stars to keep her company. I know the only people who have noticed my problems have no right to say anything to me, and more time than I'll ever have to think. I live by the day, the night, and a creed that's not even mine; I live by the limited lifespan of my species and a likelihood of getting shot in the head; and, I live by not living in the best way I know how.


	2. Chapter 2

Samantha is suspicious in a way that Miranda isn't. She tries too hard to be nice and open. I know what her job is, but I don't know her. I don't know her, but I know what her obligation to Cerberus is, and I know that obligation is to have every possible piece of dirt on me in existence. It's no wonder I end up in the bathroom in the middle of the night dissecting my own thoughts. Jack is a bigger help than she realizes with my problems. She's just as volatile as I wish I could be, just as likely to act on her thoughts as she is the change her mind, and she's not afraid to leave a mark.

I forget what we talk about below deck. I know she's got a bottle of good whiskey, distracting tattoos, and a bite like nothing else. I know she's got issues as long as my list of alliance commendations, and I know I'm the closest thing to help she's going to allow herself to have. I sit down there with my back against the wall and she does the same. She's a bottle of vitriol and unrestricted snark. She's got a million words and most of them are "fuck" and "you". Maybe she thinks I'm mocking her when I come down there in the dark with her, or maybe she thinks she's getting one over on me. Either way, I know it's not a secret that I do what I have to do, and it's not a secret that she likes the way I can kick ass. I don't love for the fight in the same way Jack does, and I hope I never have to. I fight because I have to; I fight because I'm the only one who will fight, and I fight because I was trained to.

I don't fight for the way that blood stains my fingers, or for the rush of the kill, and I don't do it because it's a necessity. I don't remember the faces of everyone I've killed, of every being that used to be a person that I've shot, or the times my finger has hesitated on the trigger. I remember the times I shot because I was told, the times I lived when I shouldn't have, and the times in perpetuity where I've faced impossible odds. I remember the times I've sat in the medbay watching the dancing of the lighted seams in my skin, plastic beneath my hands and a needle and thread beneath my skin, and how often I've thought "this is it". I look at my hands and I see a thirty year old history. I see one hundred years lost. I see the hands of someone who's done too much and can't do too much more. I see the hands of someone without the resolve to do what's right when the times come. I see the trembling hands of a coward with a trembling trigger finger. I see the bloodied fists of someone who can't control their temper in a regulation bathroom. I know the mirror is going to need to be replaced, and I know I'll count another set of stitches in my hands.


	3. Chapter 3

I've been thinking. Traynor has been playing chess with me in my suite, and Miranda has smiled. Jack hasn't had an incident since one of the replacements wandered below deck.

I've been thinking it's too quiet. It's never quiet between my two ears, but the chatter in the ship has been dying. The only conversation I hear is the click of my boots over the grates on the floor as I make my rounds. I walk, the talking stops, and I walk some more.


	4. Chapter 4

What right do I have to feel fear? I don't have to opportunity to flee my post--to finally put down my gun. I flinch at the shadows on my wall at night, grip the gun beneath my pillow with sweaty fingers, and I wonder why my life ended up good way. I think too much, react too quickly, and an never ready to face the consequences. I've lost so many people, and now I've lost myself.

Traynor keeps offering to help me, but the only one I can talk to doesn't want to face her own demons. Miranda invited me into her office for another uncomfortable hour. Her words seemed genuine, but how much of that is my willingness to believe it is, and how much of it is practice? I'd be stupid not to believe she doesn't tell "Tim" everything I'm up to. I know he's got eyes everywhere, and I know he spends his day hustling for every scrap of information he can get. If he was going to be so fucking worried I'd work with him he should've never brought me back. There's nothing so awful as waking up again after being able to let go.


End file.
